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Nov. 19th, 2002 08:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kuangningIt's that time of year again.
We had the first frost on the grass, on the rooves, on the fallen leaves, on the cars. Sunlight glittered off ice-crystals and lit up everything as we drove home, turning puddles into mirrors that flashed messages I could just barely understand. The leaves are as red, as yellow, as rich as they are going to get from this point onward -- and, this being the south, there is still plenty of new green if one knows where to look.
There's something about ice that speaks of beginnings to me. Yes, I know that sounds wrong; everyone thinks this is the ending of the year. But I can't think of dormancy without looking forward to renewal, and I can't see bare branches without thinking that they now have a clean slate, ready for a fresh start -- and so do I. Everything seems possible right now, with all the old clutter pushed aside, old thoughts falling away from me like those leaves. Somewhere back in grammar school, Enid Blyton's Pip and I learned that the leaves change colours because the trees pipe their wastes into them, and then they fall because they're not needed any more. I feel lighter without my leaves. Wonder if the trees do, too. Goodbye, season of pushing for maximum growth in the shortest amount of time. Goodbye, fighting for space, for light, for moisture, for all the little things it takes to feed a tree -- or nourish a soul. Somewhere along the line, we got to a point where we could slow down a little... and we never noticed, till the frost came to remind us. Now it's time to be still, to watch and wait and maintain, until the call comes, wrapped in warmer weather and springtime dreams, that it's time to be stirring again.
We had the first frost on the grass, on the rooves, on the fallen leaves, on the cars. Sunlight glittered off ice-crystals and lit up everything as we drove home, turning puddles into mirrors that flashed messages I could just barely understand. The leaves are as red, as yellow, as rich as they are going to get from this point onward -- and, this being the south, there is still plenty of new green if one knows where to look.
There's something about ice that speaks of beginnings to me. Yes, I know that sounds wrong; everyone thinks this is the ending of the year. But I can't think of dormancy without looking forward to renewal, and I can't see bare branches without thinking that they now have a clean slate, ready for a fresh start -- and so do I. Everything seems possible right now, with all the old clutter pushed aside, old thoughts falling away from me like those leaves. Somewhere back in grammar school, Enid Blyton's Pip and I learned that the leaves change colours because the trees pipe their wastes into them, and then they fall because they're not needed any more. I feel lighter without my leaves. Wonder if the trees do, too. Goodbye, season of pushing for maximum growth in the shortest amount of time. Goodbye, fighting for space, for light, for moisture, for all the little things it takes to feed a tree -- or nourish a soul. Somewhere along the line, we got to a point where we could slow down a little... and we never noticed, till the frost came to remind us. Now it's time to be still, to watch and wait and maintain, until the call comes, wrapped in warmer weather and springtime dreams, that it's time to be stirring again.
